


Sometimes, Good Things Come in Ugly Packages

by shomaun_ho



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Lots of kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Misunderstandings, borderline crack in places I'm sorry, injury mention, not detailed but it's In There, so much idiocy, so much self deprecation from shoma oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 01:51:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17173574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shomaun_ho/pseuds/shomaun_ho
Summary: Perhaps, in hindsight, Shoma should have questioned exactly why Yuzuru would want to hang out with him on Christmas eve.





	Sometimes, Good Things Come in Ugly Packages

**Author's Note:**

> Because this is fic and I can do what I want, Yuzuru is still an injured buffoon, but Shoma is not an injured buffoon and also JNats finished earlier than it did IRL so that Shoma had enough time to travel okay okAY 
> 
> This is so very stupid and self indulgent and also I have killer writers block so it's...questionable at best, but it's soft and fluffy and silly so I hope u enjoy it!!

Perhaps, in hindsight, Shoma should have questioned exactly why Yuzuru would want to hang out with him on Christmas eve.

But Yuzuru had extended the invitation so casually, a throwaway comment, and Shoma had agreed equally offhanded, and the conversation had moved on to more common topics before Shoma really had the time to think about what had transpired. Truthfully, Shoma had wondered if, perhaps, he’d made it up. It’s not _completely_ implausible that his mind might have...drifted, a little, found a cosy, liminal space in which Yuzuru would invite him to hang out, alone, in his family home, on Christmas _eve_ of all days.

And Shoma was content to assume that was exactly what had happened, until Yuzuru had yawned down the phone, long and loud, and smacked his lips tiredly.

“I should sleep,” he’d said, and Shoma had hummed absently. It was late morning in Japan, Shoma still blinking himself awake over a coffee with too many sugars and eyeballing a redbull hungrily, but he knew that in Toronto, it was late. Too late for Yuzuru to be up, really, what with the strict recovery routine Yuzuru had developed for himself, complete with lots of very healthy food and  _obscenely_ early mornings.

“I’ll call again soon, and we can talk about Christmas some more?”

“Sounds good,” Shoma had murmured, distractedly reaching for his redbull, and then, shaking his head, “wait, what?”

“Christmas eve,” Yuzuru had said. “I know you have nationals, but the gala is early, right? And you said you weren’t gonna hang around anyway, and my parents are going for dinner with Saya and her boyfriend, and I wasn’t even _invited_ so I’ll be home alone anyway, and—you said you wanted to come?”

“Oh,” Shoma had said, dumbly. “Yeah. That’ll—it’ll be nice. I feel like I haven’t seen you in—”

“— _forever_.” Yuzuru’s voice had an edge of something stringy and petulant, a twine that Shoma had grown familiar with, over the last weeks.

Yuzuru had done an awful lot of whining, after Rostelecom. Honestly, Shoma preferred the racket; there had been days, almost a whole week following the competition, following the injury, in which Yuzuru had barely talked at all, wallowing in the pain and the stress and the fear. It was almost a _relief_ , to hear him whinging about the time and the distance between them as though those things were his biggest, most pressing problems.

“If I don’t see you while I’m in Japan over the holidays, I might not see you until, what, Worlds? Shoma, that’s _so_ _long_.”

“Oh, however will you cope?” Shoma had replied blandly. Yuzuru had made a huffy little noise, and it was easy to imagine his pout, half a world away. He might even have poked out his tongue.

“I won't cope,” Yuzuru had said, sounding perhaps a little _too_ serious, in response to Shoma’s teasing. “Which is why we have to meet up. I've almost forgotten what you look like, you know.”

Shoma had rolled his eyes.

“You're doing that thing,” he'd said, “you know, the catastrophizing thing Tracy told you _not_ to do anymore.”

“I don't think I'm _catastrophizing_ anything, I'm very serious. Sometimes I picture you with blonde hair now, and it doesn’t even look weird.”

Wrinkling his nose, Shoma ruffled self consciously at the untidy mop atop his head.

“That'd look terrible. And none of this sounds like you’re really going to sleep, to me.”

“Solid observation,” Yuzuru had teased. “I’ll speak to you soon, okay?”

Shoma had nodded, and said, “okay. Night, Yuzu.”

He’d felt oddly dazed, hanging up the phone; windswept, ruffled, and a little out of the loop. It wasn’t a wholly uncommon feeling, where Yuzuru was involved, for he had a habit of getting carried away, and truthfully, in most situations, Shoma was fairly content to be caught and carried by the tide, to see where he ended up.

But—as with most things—it was so very different with Yuzuru. So much _harder_ with Yuzuru.

Not that everything with Yuzuru was so trying: their friendship was easy, in so many ways. He complimented Shoma well. He was loud, talkative where Shoma was quiet, content to fill the empty spaces with pointless, circling chatter when Shoma was too tired to think, let alone _talk_. He teased, but never too much; similarly, Shoma knew which of Yuzuru’s buttons he could push, and had reached a point where prodding them was comfortable. On the most basic level, his company made Shoma happy. It was...fun, talking to him, spending time with him, and Shoma had missed it greatly over the season.

In other ways, though, friendship with Yuzuru was….exponentially more difficult.

Though that was entirely Shoma’s fault.

It was Shoma’s fault, for the blush that rose hot and heavy in his cheeks, whenever Yuzuru smiled at him, laughed with him. It was Shoma’s fault for the fullness in his chest when Yuzuru took the time to call, or else to seek him out during competitions when their period of geographical proximity was scarce, and their schedules full. It was Shoma’s fault for the way his skin prickled with the barest of touches—Yuzuru’s fingers soft at his elbow, delicately laid on his wrist, his knee, his thigh, ruffling into his hair, tickling at his waist, his ribs.

Being friends with Yuzuru could be so hard, when Shoma hungered for just a little _more_. But there was nobody to blame but himself. Yuzuru hadn’t _made_ him feel—whatever he felt. Yuzuru wasn’t so handsy in the knowledge that it was torturous, and his kindness and caring were traits not exclusive to his interactions with Shoma. And yet...and yet, sometimes, Shoma allowed himself, for a moment, to read into them just a touch too much. To wonder if maybe the softness of his palm at the bottom of Shoma’s back, or the tenderness in his voice during late night phone calls, or his breathy laughter and gentle smiles were reserved for Shoma in a way that meant something _different_.  

But he wasn’t stupid. He knew where they stood, knew the lines they could never cross. And the steady, solid friendship they’d built up over the years was worth whatever persistent, dull aches Shoma might have.

And accepting all of this—accepting that Yuzuru’s feelings were on a different wavelength to his own, that sometimes he read into their interactions more than Yuzuru ever would—is why he did things like _this_ without too much serious consideration.

It was why, after an hour and a half on the plane, half hour on the train, and a short, sweet taxi ride, he was hiking his bag up onto his shoulder, and staring warily at the Hanyu family households’ front door.  

It felt...oddly intimidating, arriving at Yuzuru’s house like this. Just the two of them. On Christmas eve. The depth of meaning in the meeting no doubt tunnelled far, far deeper for Shoma than for Yuzuru, who had simply suggested the date as something doable; an unoccupied time slot in his no-doubt busy schedule.

And it really had been so _long_ , since they’d actually seen each other.

Shoma knocked a fist to the wood, and had barely had the time to suck in a much-needed steadying breath, when Yuzuru appeared in the open doorway, smile huge and blindingly brilliant.

“You made it,” he said, an odd mix of giddy and relieved and plain breathless, and then he reached out, curled a hand around Shoma’s forearm, and yanked him over the threshold.

“Mm.”

Shoma could only hum, teeth clenched to hide the nervous chatter, and bow once, twice, three times as Yuzuru offered him a pair of slippers to exchange for his shoes, dropping his bag to the floor and toeing out of his trainers. He could only murmur his thanks again as Yuzuru helped him straighten up by the arm, pulled him up the step and into the corridor, and he could do nothing but _choke_ , as Yuzuru tugged him forward, hard and sudden and enough to topple Shoma’s weight, tangle his feet, and make him stumble straight into Yuzuru’s chest.

“I—” shoma began, a strangled apology forming in his throat, but before he could squeeze the words out, Yuzuru shifted, and—oh.

Shoma stood very still, face hot, cheek smushed at Yuzuru’s collar, fists clenched at his sides, while both of Yuzuru’s lanky arms drew tight around his back, holding him close. Hugging him.

“It's so good to see you,” Yuzuru said, quiet. His mouth was close, breath teasing the hair atop Shoma’s head, and his touch was tight, sure, but comfortable. Familiar.

Heady, liquid warmth pooled pleasantly in Shomas stomach. He brought his arms up, too, and wrapped them gently around Yuzuru’s back.

“Mm,” he hummed, and then, with a concentrated effort to mask the trembling in his tone, “you, too.”

When Yuzuru pulled back, he was beaming. Shoma felt himself smile back—Yuzuru’s happiness really was infectious.

He felt an odd, empty kind of chill, when they stepped apart. Yuzuru ruffled his own fringe, tucked the sides back behind his ears. He seemed _fidgety_ , which wasn’t altogether unusual, but Shoma cocked his head at him all the same, raising a brow.

“You’re being...twitchy,” he said. Yuzuru knotted his fingers together.

“I’m fine,” Yuzuru said. Shoma narrowed his eyes, staring at the place where Yuzuru’s nails were now picking at a thread on his jumper.

“Did you do something stupid again?” Shoma asked. He let his gaze rove over Yuzuru’s whole body, from head to toe, searching for signs that something was different, or wrong. That there was something else happening, something that Yuzuru hadn’t confided in him. But nothing seemed amiss—nothing, besides Yuzuru shifting his weight edgily from foot to foot.

He gave an indignant little squawk at Shoma’s words, and curled his face into a pout.

“No! And what do you mean, _again,_  when have I _ever_ —”

“Then why are you being all—” Shoma gestured vaguely to Yuzuru’s entire, restless being. “—Shifty.”

“I’m not,” he said, a little too quickly. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

Shoma gave him another once over. Perhaps he was imagining it—a trick, from the warm light in the corridor—but the skin over Yuzuru’s cheeks and nose looked a little _pink_. And he definitely _was_ being shifty. Shoma watched him shuffle his weight once more between his feet, from left to right to left again, and only then did it occur to him that perhaps Yuzuru wasn’t supposed to be standing, for quite so long.

“We should go, sit,” Shoma said, and motioned to Yuzuru’s ankle. “You're supposed to be resting that.”

Yuzuru waved him off with a wrinkle of his nose, but beckoned him further into the house anyway, leading him down the hallway and pausing at a door, pushing it open, and gesturing for Shoma to step inside. Shoma scooped up his discarded bag, and followed.

The house, thus far, had been modest; warm colours adorned the walls, but the space was minimalist, with very little decoration and only a handful of small, neat family pictures lining the corridor. The room Yuzuru shooed him into, though, was indulgently full, with big, plush chairs and a sofa, a roaring fire, cabinets laden with little trinkets, flush against the walls, and a collection of trophies and medals and ribbons that must have been awarded to Yuzuru, at various points over the span of his career. 

And, towering in one corner, a huge Christmas tree, stacked bottom to top with shining decorations, baubles and ornaments, beads and thin strips of silver tinsel, and a great, long string of fairy lights, casting a patchy, warm glow about the room.

The click of the door drew his gaze away from the tree, and Shoma turned to see Yuzuru, coming to stand beside him, looking up at the tree with a sheepish expression on his face.

“Mum got a little….enthusiastic, with the decorating,” he said. “Sorry, I know it’s a lot.”

Shoma shook his head, turning again to look up at the tree. It _was_ a lot, true, but it was also beautiful. Meticulously put together, so that the decorations were spread just so, leaving no space too empty nor too full, colours evenly dispersed. It must have taken a lot of time and a lot of energy to space everything out so perfectly. Shoma could, if nothing else, appreciate that.

“No, it’s good. I like it,” he said. Yuzuru shifted in his periphery, and Shoma only had to roll his eyes to see the grin once again spreading itself wide over Yuzuru’s face. For a moment, he looked...soft, in the light from the tree—eyes crescents, cheeks a little pink, smile big but gentle.

Shoma felt his own cheeks growing a little warm, and looked away. It’s _unfair_ , how beautiful Yuzuru can be. How much Shoma is affected by it.

And as quickly as it’d come, the gentle look on Yuzuru’s face disappeared, morphed swiftly into something louder, a little less soft and a lot more manic. Shoma looked at him.

“What is it?”

“Presents! I got you something.”

Shoma blinked. He’d bought a present of his own—nothing special, more headphones to add to Yuzuru’s extensive collection—but he hadn’t expected Yuzuru to get him anything at all. It made his cheeks feel unnervingly hot, but he shook away the telltale threads of a dangerous, wandering thought. Yuzuru was his friend—it was perfectly normal, common, even, for friends to buy each other gifts for Christmas.

Shoma gestured loosely to his bag, discarded once again on the floor.

“I got you something, too.”

Yuzuru’s whole body gave a giddy little wiggle, and then he grabbed Shoma by the shoulders, and spun him on the spot, until he was standing with his back to the Christmas tree, and to Yuzuru.

“Wait, let me get it. It’s nothing fancy, but I saw it and it made me think of you, and I thought—I hoped you might like it? I don’t know. It’s kind of different, but it’s good, I think,” Yuzuru said, mumbling mostly to himself, Shoma assumed, and then, after a moment of rustling and shuffling and continuous muttering, “okay. Turn around.”

Shoma twisted slowly on his heel, and was greeted by Yuzuru, rolling up and down on the balls of his feet, both arms wedged behind his back.

“Ready?” He asked. Shoma nodded. “Here!”  

And from behind his back, he pulled a hat. A _busy_ one, tight-knit wool in gaudy Christmas reds and greens, decorated with goofy cartoon reindeer, bulbous trees full to bursting with baubles—some knitted into the pattern, others made of thin, tinny metal in more vibrant colour, glued haphazardly in place—and from the top, a pole, long, thin, curved, and striped like candy canes, with something small, barely discernible dangling from the very tip. Shoma squinted up at it, but with nothing but the low light from the Christmas tree, it was difficult to see.  
  
"... Thanks."  
  
Yuzuru grinned wider, and shoved the frankly _offensive_ article closer, insistent, until Shoma had no choice but to take it, or else let it continue poking at his chest for the rest of forever. Yuzuru still seemed...obscenely giddy. He bounced on the balls of his feet, wrung his hands together in front of his chest.  
  
"Try it on!"  
  
Shoma held it warily. Now that it was in his hands, he could feel a strip of hard plastic, curving right through the middle of the wool, from one side to the other, and there was something written—in presumably English—plastered to the front of it. Little sprinkles of glitter danced in the soft, pinprick lights from the tree as Shoma twisted the thing in his hands. That, no doubt, would find its way into his hair. It'd take weeks, months, maybe, to clean it all away.  
  
He looked from the hat, to Yuzuru—who nodded eagerly—and back to the hat again.  
  
"We're inside," he said. "It's warm. I don't...need a hat right now."  
  
Yuzuru's face fell into a pout.  
  
"You don't like it?"  
  
Shoma blinked at him. Perhaps the painkillers were getting to him, that must be it. Addling his brain. There is no way the regular, sane Yuzuru could look at something so loud, so boisterous, and expect Shoma to like it. Shoma, who likes calm, and quiet, and the kinds of muted things that keep him firmly in the background. This... _thing_ was a centerpiece, and a particularly horrible one at that.  
  
Still, Yuzuru had bought it. Yuzuru had seen it—where? What hellshop could he have possibly found it in?—and he'd thought of Shoma, and he'd bought it. Whatever degenerative brain problem he was clearly developing did not change the fact that he had bought it with the implicit goal of somehow, some way, making Shoma happy.  
  
Shoma muffled a sigh, and mustered a tired smile.  
  
"I like it," he said, fighting very, very hard to not sound like he were talking to a particularly small and stupid child. Then held it out for Yuzuru to take. "Put it on for me?"  
  
Yuzuru's smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, frown all forgotten. Brat. Manipulative little—  
  
"Really?" He said, smile growing wider. "You'll wear it?"  
  
Shoma grit his teeth and nodded. Truly, it was the last thing he wanted to do, but what choice did he have? Later, he thought, when Yuzuru was asleep, he'd call Brian, maybe. Or Tracy, she always seemed nice. She might understand his... concerns—what cocktail of medication is he taking? Are delusions a listed side effect?  
  
"I'll wear it," Shoma said, "if you want."  
  
"I want."  
  
Beaming, Yuzuru plucked the hideous thing from Shoma's fingers, and plonked it unceremoniously on to Shoma's head. The base of the pole thunked dully against his scalp, and the plastic band caught a little on his ears.  
  
"There!" he said, planting his hands on his hips, appraising his masterpiece.  
  
The hat was a little big, and the pole made it heavy, weighted the wool too far forwards. The fabric hung too low on his forehead, itching at his eyebrows, and it pushed the long, curly hair of his fringe into his eyes. Glitter drifted down onto his shoulders, clung to the fabric like gaudy dandruff. One of the glued on decorations tinkled merrily.  
  
Shoma blew his hair out of his eyes, and rolled his gaze up.  
  
"How does it look?" he asked, flat. Yuzuru's lips were pinched, the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkled. His eyes themselves sparkled in the light from the christmas tree, but there was something else drawing a shimmer from them; mirth. Amusement. Yuzuru was trying not to laugh at him.

  
A little stab of something bitter and aching pinched at his chest. Shoma didn't mind being laughed at, not really; so often he made it very easy for people to do, with his sleepiness and his clumsiness and his shortness and his airiness and—well, the list is impossibly long. Shoma doesn't mind it, most times, but there is something decidedly unpleasant about being the butt of the joke because somebody made him into it. Because Yuzuru made him into it.  
  
Something on his face must look wrankled, because Yuzuru composed himself at once and waved placating hands between them.  
  
"I'm not laughing at you," he said quickly, even though he very clearly was. "I like it. You look cute."  
  
That, at least, sounded earnest. Yuzuru said it with a softness Shoma hears rarely, but preens under every time. Heat simmers in his cheeks, no doubt painting the skin pink—which must look awful with the horrible hat, he realised, and turned his face away to look instead at the Christmas tree. The hat jingled, and the pole swayed ominously. Yuzuru choked on a cackle, and when Shoma turned narrowed eyes on him, he bit at his knuckles to swallow back the noise.  
  
Shoma sighed, and rubbed at his brows. The wool itched unpleasantly.  
  
"I bought you something, too," he said, reaching to pluck his gift from its spot near the top of his bag. He had half a mind not to give it to Yuzuru, now, but he'd bought it. He'd paid for it. He had no real use for it. "It's nothing special, but— _mmph_."  
  
Shoma had turned to hand Yuzuru his gift, and several things had happened at once. The mystery bell on the hat had chimed, and the pole had tipped dangerously off kilter, and Yuzuru had shifted in his periphery, and then there was the soft tickle of fingertips, warm and trembling, just a little, teasing at the skin beneath his chin, his jaw, and Yuzuru was so close, and then—  
  
And then Yuzuru was kissing him.  
  
Shoma's eyes widened. Yuzuru's face was close, blurry, but Shoma could see that his eyes were squeezed tight shut, screwed up. The delicate fingers hooked beneath Shoma's chin shook, enough that he could feel it, even with the feathery bareness of the touch. Yuzuru shuddered out a breath through his nose, and the air rattled out of him.  
  
They stayed like that for...probably too long, for such a simple touch. On Shoma's part, he was a little too stunned to move, and as for Yuzuru—Shoma suspected, given the tremor at every point of contact, that he was too scared.  
  
Shoma brought his hands up, and rested them gently on Yuzuru's upper arms. There, too, he shook, muscle vibrating beneath Shoma's fingers. Shoma squeezed there firmly, and pulled back, stepping out of Yuzuru's immediate space, but keeping his hold. Keeping him at arm’s length. No closer, but no further away.  
  
Yuzuru's eyes remained screwed shut. His cheeks were a pretty wine-pink, and his teeth gnawed at his bottom lip, and he was still bent, just a little, low enough to bring his face down to Shoma's level. Shoma let out a long breath.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asked. Slowly. Clearly. Yuzuru's face screwed up a little more.  
  
"I—" he started, and then, lamely, "the hat."  
  
Shoma's brows furrowed. In his surprise, he'd almost forgotten about the awful thing. Almost.  
  
"What about it?" he asked. Yuzuru bit at his lip, hard enough to divert the blood flow, to bleach the skin a stark white. Shoma watched as Yuzuru released the plump flesh, as colour rushed back into it, bruised it red, deep in the little trenches his teeth had dug.  
  
And then, quietly, "Mistletoe."  
  
"Bless you?" Shoma said. Yuzuru hissed out a sigh.  
  
"Mistletoe," he said, louder, in a language Shoma understood. Oh.  
  
Oh.  
  
Heat flooded him. He turned his gaze up again, past the green and red rim of the hat, past the silly fat reindeer and the rounded Christmas trees, up the length of the long, thin pole, and squinted again at the thing dangling from the tip of it.  
  
Leaves. Smooth, rich green, and a sprinkling of little white berries, dangling right over his head. A tiny sprig of mistletoe.  
  
_Oh._  
  
Yuzuru shuffled his feet.  
  
"I—Zhenya put some up, at the cricket club. It's a big thing, there, you know? In Canada. They hang it everywhere, and I keep—I keep seeing people. Kissing under it. Zhenya even made me Kiss Jason once," Yuzuru said. "She said it’s a very strict rule."  
  
"I think she was...probably joking," Shoma said, sounding a little distant, dazed. Yuzuru shrugged, and the action twitched the muscles beneath Shoma's hands. It worked to ground him, a little. Keep him from floating away.  
  
He felt overloaded. A little raw and a little sensitive and a lot confused. The mistletoe explained the kiss, yes, but what explained the mistletoe?  
  
Distantly, a nasty part of Shoma wondered if this, too, was a joke. Something for Yuzuru to laugh at. But he didn't seem much like laughing, right now. He was twitching again, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, and his fingers, having dropped from Shoma's face, clung loosely to the hem of his jumper and worried the fabric.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Yuzuru blinked his eyes open at the question. He looked caught-out, off guard, destabilised, like Shoma had struck him a blow in a critical balance point. His mouth opened, closed. His eyes flickered over Shoma's face, from side to side and up and down, scouring over everything he could see, searching for—what? Shoma didn't know.  
  
"What do you mean, why?" Yuzuru asked.  
  
"Why did you want to kiss me?"  
  
Oh, he sounded so small. Shoma wished he could suck the words back into his lungs, puff them up to be a little more substantial; louder, less self conscious. But he couldn't, and so he let them hang there, pitifully quiet, growing stagnant between them.  
  
"Because I wanted to?"  
  
Shoma gusted out a breath. Yuzuru's brow furrowed. He stepped a little closer. Shoma half wished he wouldn't, and his fingers tightening on Yuzuru's arms must have conveyed that well enough, because Yuzuru stopped moving at once, and stood still, hands dangling at his sides.  
  
It wasn't that he didn't want the closeness. It was more that he did, that he had for so long, that it was such a poorly kept secret to everybody but Yuzuru, and that it was almost impossible to believe that Yuzuru might want it, too. It felt like a trap—like Shoma would smile, open his mouth to respond, to tell Yuzuru good, I want that too, but then the veneer would break, Yuzuru would crumble, and the joke would reveal itself in full. _You should've seen your face_ , he'd laugh, head thrown back, whinnying high in his nose.  
  
And Shoma would have to laugh, too, and pretend he didn't feel so stupid for thinking, even for a second, that Yuzuru might entertain even the thought of them as anything more than friends. The idea of Shoma as anything other than a kid to be cared for, a younger man in need of guidance, was laughable, and nothing else.  
  
Yuzuru's knuckles knocking gently at his forehead drew Shoma back into the present.  
  
"You home, Sho?" he asked, and his voice was so soft in the quiet. Shoma nodded. Yuzuru smiled, a tender, fragile thing.  
  
"Yeah," Shoma said. "Sorry."  
  
Yuzuru shrugged at him.  
  
"It's fine," he said. He held that same gentle smile, but something about it looked so breakable, like it might chip and crack and crumble, given one wrong move. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't—" he huffed, and stepped back, out of Shoma's reach, running a hand back through his hair.  
  
"I shouldn't have done that. It wasn't fair."  
  
Shoma found himself shaking his head before he had time to think, to process.  
  
"It's fine," he said. And truthfully, it was. Yuzuru seemed guilty, yes, but no part of him looked like he wanted to laugh about it. This was never intended to be a joke at Shoma's expense. It was a prank, a silly hat and a kiss under the mistletoe, because that's just what people did. Nothing more convoluted than that.  
  
Yuzuru smiled that sad, fragile smile, and dropped to sit on the sofa.  
  
"It's not fine. It was stupid. I should've—I should've checked, you know? But I just thought—we talk a lot? And its nice. You don't ask questions, and you listen when I have a lot to say, and—and hanging out with you is nice. You don't get weird around me, and you’ve never really changed how you see me or talk yo me or treat me even when everybody else has, a little, and. And sometimes I think maybe there's...I don't know, more? I thought maybe—but I should’ve just asked, i guess."  
  
Shoma's head spun. Yuzuru was being Yuzuru, talking endlessly, stringing thoughts together as they came and creating haphazard spider diagrams, maps Shoma struggled to follow at the best of times, but now—the lines blurred horribly, hopelessly tangled. Shoma didn't have a chance of unscrambling them.  
  
"But I just—" Yuzuru burst out, and Shoma blinked rapidly at him, scrambling for the point where this new thought might connect on to the rest. "Something Keiji said made me think—but I tried to ask him, and he wouldn’t say anything else—"  
  
"—wait, what?"  
  
Yuzuru startled at the sound of Shoma's voice, as though he'd forgotten, for a moment, that he wasn't alone.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Keiji. What did Keiji say?"  
  
Yuzuru floundered a little. Shoma felt hot all over, a prickling, uncomfortable warmth swelling under his skin. It rose sweat on his brow, done the line of his back, his palms. The beginnings of panic, itching at him.  
  
"Just, some things that made me think—"  
  
"What things?" He asked, a little too sharp.  
  
Yuzuru's cheeks bloomed pink again.  
  
"Nothing bad," he said, as though that was meant to be reassuring. "He just suggested I maybe look at things a little...differently, I guess. I don't know. I was moping about things, and maybe he thought it'd make me feel better?"  
  
Shoma swallowed. He was going to murder Keiji.  
  
"And it did? I think. But I guess I looked at things too much, and thought about it too hard, and—came to the wrong conclusions."  
  
"I am...in now way surprised by that," Shoma wheezed out. Yuzuru at least had it in himself to laugh. Shoma steeled himself. "What—what conclusions did you come to?"  
  
Yuzuru's little grin shifted abruptly to a grimace. A deep, tugging part of Shoma wanted to reach out, to touch, to comfort, but he stayed wholly still, out of reach and waiting.  
  
"That I like you? A lot. And—" the pink in Yuzuru's cheeks deepened to a thick, humiliating red, "—that you like me a lot, too."  
  
Shoma's breath caught in his throat.  
  
"And that I wanted to kiss you a _whole_ lot. And that you maybe wanted that? And then when I asked you to hang out today and you said yes, I—."  
  
A smile, real and soft and whole, spread gently on Yuzuru's face. It rounded his cheeks, bled light into his eyes.  
  
"It’s Christmas eve. It’s— _romantic_. And you wanted to spend it with me. I thought I was maybe the luckiest man in the whole world."  
  
Abruptly, Yuzuru let out a little squawk, and slapped both hands over his cherry-red face.  
  
" _Gaaah,_  I got so carried away," he wailed, muffled by the press of his own palms.  
  
Shoma could only blink at him. Something low in his chest was unfurling, expanding, spilling into every empty, hollow part of him until there was nothing left, no space untouched, and still it grew, squeezing his lungs and pressing every last drop of air from them. It ballooned, huge and thoroughly uncontainable, threatening to burst him at the seams.  
  
Fingers trembling, Shoma reached up, and pulled the hat from his head. He stepped to the edge of the sofa, where Yuzuru sat, still, crooning his humiliation into the press of his hands. Shoma hesitated once, twice, stalling little jerks of his hand, as he brought the hat forward, and down, until finally, he pulled it over Yuzuru's head.  
  
Too low. He tugged until the brim fell over Yuzuru's eyes completely, blindfolding him. Yuzuru fell silent at once, hands lifting from his face, and his head tipped up, back, reflexively searching for a gap through which he could see. Shoma grabbed loosely at Yuzuru's wrists. He could feel the frantic patter of his pulse, life pumping fast beneath his fingertips.  
  
He sucked in a breath, held it.  
  
"Shoma?" Yuzuru said. His voice was barely a whisper, but it cracked like a whip in Shoma's ears, snapping through the steady, rushing pound of blood in his head.  
  
Shoma squeezed his eyes closed, and surged forwards, kissing Yuzuru squarely on the mouth.

There was a moment, endlessly long, where Yuzuru sat, unmoving. Rigid from head to toe—Shoma considered pulling away, considered that maybe, somehow, _he_ had misunderstood. That he had disentangled Yuzuru’s ramblings and squeezed the pieces together in the wrong order, forced a picture that wasn’t there at all.

And then, a sound, so soft Shoma almost missed it. Not quite a moan, but something formless and shapeless and brittle, caught low in the back of Yuzuru’s throat.

Yuzuru’s wrists slipped from his grip. Both hands, this time, tucked neatly under his jaw, holding him with curled knuckles, touching as though he were something precious, something delicate that Yuzuru wanted to protect. Shoma let his hands fall to Yuzuru’s shoulders, instead, wrists set loose atop the gentle slope of muscle. His fingers dangled helplessly, tickling the base of Yuzuru’s neck.

He sighed out the breath he’d been holding, and Yuzuru did the same, allowing one hand to drop to Shoma’s waist, to curl against it. He splayed his fingers gently, every touch so soft and so bare that Shoma wondered if perhaps he were imagining it—but no, Yuzuru’s hand at his side was real, and warm, and the gentle pressure of it tugged him forwards, finding a place between Yuzuru’s knees. It was odd, being taller, turning his face down while Yuzuru’s tilted up.

Shoma drew away from the kiss reluctantly, and felt the muscles of Yuzuru’s neck strain, just a little, chin tipping to chase him, and though Shoma could feel Yuzuru’s lips tickle at his own, they didn’t press for more. Shoma let his forehead drop to rest Yuzuru’s.

“I think, maybe,” Shoma said quietly, “we both overcomplicated things. A little bit.”

Yuzuru wheezed. The air puffed gently over Shoma’s mouth, fanned out against his cheeks. The brim of the hat scratched at his forehead, and only then did he remember that Yuzuru couldn’t _see_.

“Sorry,” Shoma said, lifting his head, and pushing the brim out of Yuzuru’s eyes. Yuzuru winked one eye open, and reached to rub at the other. Shoma’s heart thumped heavy in his chest. Yuzuru simply laughed, shaking his head.

It was difficult to pinpoint what, exactly, he was apologising for—for blinding Yuzuru with the ugly hat, or for the misunderstanding, for making him hurt unnecessarily, for having feelings in the first place? Shoma didn’t know. All of it, he supposed, and whatever Yuzuru was understanding of that, he was forgiving him for.

For a moment, they only looked at each other. Yuzuru’s eyes were dark and soft and _glowing_ , cheeks pleasantly flushed, fringe a rumpled mess where the hat had shifted. He looked beautiful.

And then, he broke out into a breathless laugh. All teeth, cheeks bunched and nose wrinkled, eyes scrunched closed, and he stretched up to close the gap between them, catching Shoma in a kiss decidedly more clumsy than the last, but this one felt sure. Shoma curled his fingers around the back of Yuzuru’s neck, held him there, until Yuzuru pulled back again, still laughing.

“I don’t know what just happened,” he said, shaking his head minutely. “But this is okay?”

Shoma nodded. He felt dazed, a little lost, but Yuzuru’s palm, solid and heavy on his waist now, kept him steady. Held him together.

Yuzuru’s smile was _blinding_. He pulled Shoma close, pressed his lips to Shoma’s cheeks, his nose, along his jaw—the skin there was sensitive, enough to draw a startled little gasp from Shoma’s lips, and the sound caused Yuzuru’s fingers to clench briefly at his hip—and then his lips again, and this time they stayed for longer, pressed harder. Shoma opened his mouth to him without prompt, and Yuzuru coughed out a tiny little groan, licking his tongue to flick barely between Shoma’s teeth.

It wasn’t a lot, not really—Shoma had done more, kissed deeper—but with Yuzuru, it was dizzying. Perhaps a little too much, a little too fast. He rested more of his weight on Yuzuru’s shoulders, against his chest, and Yuzuru met him with both arms curled loosely around his back, folding at the small of his back.

In the end, it was Yuzuru who eased them out of it. He turned the kisses softer, dialled them back, until he was pressing small pecks to the corner of Shoma’s mouth. Shoma squeezed his eyes closed, squeezed his fingers at the back of Shoma’s neck, bit his lip—all a little harsh, a touch rough, but necessary to rein himself back in.

Yuzuru smoothed a palm up and down his spine solidly, and Shoma sucked in a big, cooling breath.

“Okay?” Yuzuru asked. He was still so close, lips tickling the skin of Shoma’s cheek. Shoma nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, rasping. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Yeah. Just...a lot.”

Yuzuru snorted a laugh.

“Yeah.”

Shoma stepped back. He needed a little space, to clear his head. There was just no _room_ for clarity, with Yuzuru so close, with the feel of his breath on Shoma’s neck, and the splay of fingers rubbing low in the curve of his spine.  

And then, he took a good look at Yuzuru.

It had seemed like a good idea, before, to put that god-awful hat on him. Romantic, or symbolic, or _whatever_ , but now, looking at the lurid colours and the dumb patterns, it just seemed dumb. It _looked_ dumb. Shoma understood the reasons behind it, now, but facts were facts: the hat was so, so ugly. No grand romantic gesture could change that.

Shoma pursed his lips. Yuzuru tilted his head, and the pole atop the hat bobbed.

"What?" Yuzuru asked. Still, he sounded breathless, a little disbelieving. Shoma understood the feeling so very well.

"Just...you look _ridiculous_."

Yuzuru turned his gaze up, at the hat, and then back at Shoma, and finally, he had the decency to look contrite.

“Yeah, it’s...it’s really ugly, huh?”

“Awful, Yuzu,” Shoma said. “I know your taste is questionable—” Yuzuru reached out to pinch at his side, and Shoma shimmied out of reach, “—but even for _you_ , this is terrible.”

Yuzuru pushed the hat back off of his head, and held it between them, twisting to look it over fully.

“Okay, one, my taste is _fine_ , I don’t know what you’re talking about. And two, in my  _defence_ , they don’t do, like, _nice_ mistletoe hats. They’re all cheesy and horrible.”

“That’s a shitty defence when you could've just, not bought a mistletoe hat, you know?”

Yuzuru blinked at him, cocked his head. It’s a move Shoma makes often, he knows, but he wondered if he looked quite that cute when he did it.

“How was I supposed to kiss you without the mistletoe hat?”

Shoma looked at him, exasperated.

“Words. I think that’s maybe what we got from...all of this? That words are good. And mistletoe hats are really, really bad.”

For a moment, Yuzuru looked like he wanted to argue—he opened his mouth, raised a pointed finger in the air between them, sucked in a big, argument-fuelling breath—but then he wilted, and nodded his concession.

“That’s fair,” he said. And then, “Words are good. So we should...we should talk, right?”

Shoma’s mouth went abruptly dry. He swallowed around nothing, and let Yuzuru tug him to sit on the sofa beside him, trying to find the right place to start. He half hoped Yuzuru would do it for him, but perhaps Yuzuru was too scared of saying something wrong, of being misunderstood, or else he just had nothing to say, for he kept his mouth shut, eyes flitting quickly over Shoma’s face, waiting.

Shoma cleared his throat.

“What…” Shoma started slowly. Swallowed, took a breath. “What do you wanna do, about—this?”

“About us?” Yuzuru asked. His voice was louder, more sure than Shoma’s, but there was still a trembling edge to it that, somehow, made Shoma feel a little better. It was good, that he wasn’t the only one who was afraid. Shoma nodded at him.

“I—I don’t know,” Yuzuru said. “I didn’t—I never really thought that far ahead? I got sidetracked by the whole...mistletoe kiss, thing. The ugly hat blinded me.”

Shoma snorted a small laugh, and buried his hands between his knees. He knew exactly what it was that _he_ wanted, but he felt vulnerable, being the one to put his feelings out there, in this conversation. In this space where there was no room for misunderstanding.

“I like things as they are now,” Shoma said, taking his time. “I don’t-I don’t think I want things to change? Not really, anyway. It’s good, what—what we have now. It’s comfortable.”

“Right,” Yuzuru said, voice dry and cracked.

“I liked this—the kissing. I want more of that? If that’s what you want.”

Yuzuru gave an enthusiastic nod, and Shoma felt himself smile, just a little.

“I want more, I guess? I want what we have now, but just with...more. A little at a time, so things don’t...don’t change, so much. Not yet.”

“That sounds good,” Yuzuru said, softly. Shoma chanced looking up at him, meeting his gaze, and found Yuzuru smiling, just a little lilt of the corner of his mouth. His cheeks were about as red as Shoma’s felt, but he looked...relieved. Happy.

“Good,” Shoma said. “Do you have anything you want? It’s not fair, if this is all just _me_.”

Yuzuru looked at him, considering, and then leaned a little closer, enough that Shoma could feel the tickle of Yuzuru’s fringe against his own.

“I wanna kiss you again? Can I?”

Warm from head to toe, Shoma nodded, melting against the soft press of Yuzuru’s lips.

It was quick, a peck, but Shoma felt lighter than air when Yuzuru pulled away, finally tossing the horrible hat out of the way, onto one of the armchairs. It fell with a thump, and one of the plush cushions toppled on top of it, burying it from view.

“Much better,” Yuzuru said, sprawling back against the sofa and rubbing tiredly at his own face. He was still smiling when he lowered his hands into his lap. Shoma bit his lip, barely holding back a smile of his own, and tucked his feet up onto the sofa, shuffling until he was facing Yuzuru.

“So,” Shoma said, settling back against the arm of the sofa and poking his toe into Yuzuru’s side. “Did you get me a real present?”

Yuzuru’s eyes widened. He turned his head slowly to look over at Shoma, eyes big and wide and stupid, then scratched at the back of his neck, and put on his biggest, winning smile.

“I got you...me?”

Shoma raised an eyebrow. Yuzuru leaned over, braced himself on his fists, and tucked kisses against the hinge of Shoma’s jaw, the soft, sensitive skin below his ear.  
  
“And as many kisses as you want?”

Shoma allowed himself to sink down into the cushions, for a second, revelling in the warmth of Yuzuru’s lips peppering little, open-mouthed kisses over his skin, the heat of his body where he propped himself over Shoma. And then, “Nope,” he said, pushing at Yuzuru’s shoulder. “No. One, that’s cheesy, and two, it’s cheating.”

Yuzuru whined, dropping his face into the crook of Shoma’s neck. He felt heavy and hot, weight pressed against Shoma’s body, but it felt good. Comfortable. It was nice, that casual touch didn’t _have_ to feel different.

But it was also nice that it _could_.

Hiding his grin in Yuzuru’s hair, Shoma let his hand smooth down Yuzuru’s back, stray up again, and if he let his fingers catch in Yuzuru’s shirt, if he tugged a little at the fabric, drew it up, exposed a growing strip of pale, smooth skin, well—what’s the harm?

They would find boundaries, he knew. Shoma was very aware of what he felt ready for, and what felt too much, but teasing...teasing felt safe. It felt okay. And judging by the spread of Yuzuru’s lips against his shoulder, Yuzuru was at the very least _close_ to being on the same page. They could work it out.

For now, this was fine. This was good. 

“I guess,” he said, curling his knee against Yuzuru’s hip, “you could make it up to me?”

Yuzuru snickered into his collar, dragging his lips up to hover just out of reach of Shoma’s mouth, then flicked a finger between Shoma’s brows, laughing heartily when Shoma blinked rapidly, caught off guard by the sudden assault.

He smoothed his thumb over the abused skin, then pressed a quick, soft kiss to it, shaking his head fondly as he said, “And you had the _nerve_ to call _me_ cheesy.”

**Author's Note:**

> The front of the hat definitely said "kiss me" 
> 
> aaaaaaaaah pls tell me what u think thank u i love u all
> 
> ALSO: if y'all want more regular updates/wips/general chatter and nonsense from me, you can find me on twitter @shomaun_ho :)


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